


listen before i go

by Anonymous



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Blood, Duet, Hellfire, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Out of Character, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Singing, if you click on this, it's a hot mess, like everywhere, oh man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23307466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: gabriel captures aziraphale and tortures him. crowley has to enlist the help of powerful witches to save aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39
Collections: Anonymous





	listen before i go

**Author's Note:**

> so. i had developed a very bad dependency on the devil's lettuce when i wrote this a couple months ago. (which has been steadily improving!) so i was never going to post this. but then i thought. why not. so here we are. it has not been heavily edited, so i apologize in advance for any errors
> 
> enjoy friends

"Aziraphale," Crowley sobs, once he finally gets a bearing on himself. The sight of his angel was unbearable: Aziraphale is bleeding from everywhere, naked as his creation day, chains cruelly pierced through the carpal bones of his once-pristinely white wings, now horrifically dripping crimson into a sizable pool, and held up only by the shackles that pulled his wrists far behind his shoulders. His knees are pinned down by wide clasps that connected to the floor, holding the angel suspended painfully in air.

The angel barely lifts his head when he hears a voice, the action apparently taking too much effort. In fact, Crowley can see the disorientation in his eyes as Aziraphale takes more than a few seconds to focus on Crowley's form standing in the doorway.

"Cr - ... Cro..." Aziraphale can't even find the strength to finish the word. His head goes back to hanging.

The demon rushes forward, fear prickling all over his skin. He knew that Gabriel would be seeking to exact revenge on Aziraphale for getting the upper hand; he was, after all, the _archangel fucking Gabriel,_ and someone with that much pride in their authority wouldn't like to have it challenged.

Crowley had never thought in eons that it would lead to something like _this._

When he finally does meet his angel, he reaches immediately for the heavy metal cuffs around Aziraphale's wrists. They're tight around his plump skin, and _strong;_ the chains that connect them to the high ceiling are taut. Unable to simply pry them apart, Crowley wills his nails to blacken, elongate, and sharpen until they can slash the bonds off.

As soon as Aziraphale's arms are free, Crowley realizes that neither of them remembered to actually support the angel's weight; and so, Aziraphale falls forward, the chains speeding through the gashes in his wings and trying to rip through all the half-formed scar tissue. Aziraphale screams, a raw, guttural sound that Crowley hadn't even heard in the deepest pits of Hell.

A _singeing_ sound like burning can be heard as the wings sink as far as the chains will allow them, and then as they're forced to extend backwards as the rest of Aziraphale's torso moves forward. Crowley scrambles to lift him up before the wings allow themselves to be ripped from the base.

"'M sorry," Crowley whispers, though it doesn't seem like anyone's at home in Aziraphale's head to accept the apology.

But there's no time for Crowley to worry about that. That scream has shaken him to the very core, and he was sure that half of Heaven heard it, too. If he was going to get them both out _alive,_ they were going to have to go now.

Crowley, filled with fury and anguish, rips at the chains suspending Aziraphale's wings, and the pair fall like sacks to the ground. It allows Crowley to shudder at the sight of protrusions and depressions in the bone structure where there _definitely should not be._

It doesn't take as much rage to free Aziraphale from his last bondages, because Crowley is emotionally spent. There's nothing left. He's empty.

All he has the energy to do is lift Aziraphale as gently as possible and close his eyes for one last miracle.

It doesn't go as planned.

When Crowley opens his eyes again, they're out of Heaven and Aziraphale, thank -- thank _whoever_ \-- is still in his arms. But there's a deafening cacophony of wind rushing past his ears. When he looks down, he sees the rooftop of the Spellman mortuary from a hundred feet in the air rapidly getting closer.

It's all he can do to turn around, face to the sky, and spread his wings, vantablack against the blue sky, and attempt to slow the fall with one powerful wingbeat --

And that works, sort of. They still come crashing through the roof, though with much less force than without the makeshift, last-minute winged parachute, and Crowley wraps his black plumage around Aziraphale to shield him from the onslaught of wind and debris. Crowley, however, hits the ground with a sickening _thwack._ Everything turns black for half a moment, and Crowley's almost afraid that he's discorporated.

But he still feels the weight of Aziraphale's body on his, can feel the small, faint breaths he's barely taking. And that's enough to give him a reason to get up.

He spends as little time as possible laid down on the floor trying to recuperate. Slowly, _painfully,_ but surely, Crowley staggers to his knees, only half able to lift Aziraphale with him. It looks like he's trying to lift a large, heavy sack of flour rather than a body.

Crowley tries to find it inside him to power another miracle -- even the smallest sap of magic, just so that he could ease a little of Aziraphale's pain. So he can _wake up._

He finds nothing inside him. Going to Heaven and back and getting his demonic powers to _work_ up there was too much for his body to handle. Not to mention that his head is on fire and swimming at the same time. Something in the back of his mind reminds him that there's old, powerful magic at work around and inside the house; magic meant to ward off _his kind,_ to weaken him.

So the miracling is a dead end. He's near powerless here, and Aziraphale needs anyone, anything. So what else is left to Crowley?

"_HELP!"_ Crowley finally screams, the sound having been caught in his throat since he lost Aziraphale. He hates that he has to shout, has to plead, that it will take more than just him to save Aziraphale. It leaves his throat burning, but he needs to do it again, until someone's heard him -- "_HE-E-E-ELP! HELP ME, HELP -"_

He hears something shift, and then Sabrina and Ambrose are coming from one door, Zelda and Hilda from another. Of course; no one in their right mind, even some of the most powerful witches on Earth, wouldn't be wary of a giant crash through their roof.

Hilda gasps loud when she lays her eyes on Aziraphale's near-lifeless form. She rushes forward, bends down beside Crowley, and hesitantly, delicately, places a hand on Aziraphale's head. She runs gentle fingers through his hair, but when she pulls them away, they're sticky with blood.

Then she looks up into Crowley's face, and Crowley can't find himself caring about how _wrecked_ he must look. His eyes are fully exposed and probably full of tears, he's ready to sleep for ten thousand years, and he's completely broken from the _very_ real prospect that he might actually lose his best friend.

"Ambrose," Hilda whispers, and Crowley can see the tears of sympathy forming in her eyes. "Ambrose, help me take him to my bed. Sabrina, get all the healing herbs, _all of them._ Zelda, sister, please, tend to -- tend to Crowley."

Crowley nearly loses it right there.

"_No --_ I have to be with him. I have to, don't -- _don't --_"

But Hilda's already prying Aziraphale from his arms, as kindly as she can, and the angel makes a quiet sound, almost silent, that only Crowley hears. It's the sound of protest, of _please don't leave me,_ of fear.

It sends Crowley over the edge.

He reaches for Aziraphale again, the rush of adrenaline pumping itself through weary blood vessels, and it takes Zelda's forceful grip to stop him from snatching the angel back. Crowley's spent, he can barely even fight against Zelda's arms around him, restraining him, keeping him from Aziraphale. He gives a broken sob as Hilda and Ambrose carry the mess of skin and wings through another door, and then they're gone.

By the time he gets to Zelda's luxurious couch, Crowley's fallen completely silent. His wings have tucked himselves in, though not without some pain. He's bruised and _exhausted_, his bones more tired than they'd been in his entire life, even after Armagged-don't, when he'd literally _frozen time...._ for Aziraphale.

If he could will time to stop because Aziraphale threatened to never talk to him again, why couldn't he have _saved him?_

"I think your friend will be alright." Zelda voices, opening up a plush blanket. "I'll deny that I ever admitted it, but Hilda's the best healer I know. And I know quite a lot of exceptional witches. Not one holds a candle to her. If anyone can nurse him back... it's her."

She steps forward to drape the blanket over him, but Crowley doesn't make any motion to further pull it around himself. He feels guilty for resting when Aziraphale is only feet away, fighting for his life and needing Crowley to help him through it.

If Zelda is waiting for a response, she doesn't make a big deal out of not getting one. Instead, she bends gingerly down in front of the demon, eyes full of understanding and uncharacteristically soft. "Would you like me to stay? I can be quiet if you'd like. Or I can put on the television -- if demons watch television. But either way, I'm at least putting on some tea."

Crowley has to think about it. He definitely doesn't want to talk, not when he couldn't trust his emotions to keep themselves under wraps, but he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts. Even with Zelda's question being posed, Crowley's mind drifts to how he found Aziraphale, the way he slumped as if he had just... _given up._ Aziraphale had never given up, not on anything, not on _them._ It only makes him wonder about what Gabriel could have done.

So Crowley nods. "Quiet," he asks, his body starting to demand that it rest despite his brain ruling that it stay awake. It needed to think, needed to think about Aziraphale and how he was going to get revenge.

Zelda, noticing the sleep in his eyes, gives a small smile. She whispers something that isn't English but sounds awfully close, and then everything turns dark. He's been blessed with a dreamless sleep.

Even unconscious, Aziraphale is dreaming. He doesn't know how he has the energy for it; he could barely string two halves of a word together, much less use the mental power it took to imagine.

But there's no imagination needed for this dream.

_He's being taken somewhere._ _Uriel and Sandalphon are gripping his arms very tightly. Gabriel is in front, leading the way. Aziraphale is sweating. They had come into his bookshop while he was sleeping and attacked him. Then they took him to Heaven. _

_There's a door at the end of the hallway they're dragging Aziraphale through, and Gabriel doesn't have to snap his fingers to get it to open; he simply looks at it, and it swings wide, as if waiting for him._

_When they're finally inside, Uriel and Sandalphon throw Aziraphale to the ground as harshly as they can. He bangs his shoulder against the cold, hard white tile, but otherwise, he's fine. It's a little hard to get to his knees, but he manages -- just in time to see what's in front of him before Gabriel has the chance to say anything, the smug bastard._

_There's just chains hanging from the high ceiling and two on the ground. Two of the hanging chains have cruel, sharp spikes dangling off the ends._

_The principality's heart starts to hammer, his hands get clammy. There's something very wrong here, but he can't figure out what yet._

_"Gabriel, what... what is this?"_

_The archangel's face twists into a smile, the kind where he's truly delighted. Crowley had sort of described it, when they were drunk one night and recounting their experiences of fooling Heaven and Hell. It didn't do the real thing any justice._

_"It's for you," Gabriel answers, his faux leather dress shoes clicking across the floor as he bends to cup his inferior's face in his hand. "You're going to be here a while. I thought it might be easier to do it this way. For me, of course."_

_Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat, and his gaze shifts between the chains and Gabriel, again and again._

_Then his head shakes. "No."_

_Gabriel's smile grows wider, and he looks to his colleagues to do the dirty work for him._

_"Gabriel -- Wait -- Stop, this is too far -- No, nono, NO!" He struggles against the angels' grip, but that's quickly over with when Uriel plants her foot right in Aziraphale's gut. It knocks all the wind out of him, as if all the breaths he'd ever taken were wrenched out of his lungs._

_They drag him by his arms to the spot with all the chains, and then turn him around to face the door, to face Gabriel. There's delight on his face, and Aziraphale doesn't understand what for -- that is, until the pair of angels place their hands on Aziraphale's back. _

_His wings come sprawling out, called forth. They spread out wide, proud, and despite his best efforts, Aziraphale can't will them to return --_

_And then Gabriel lifts a hand. His fingers press together, as if ready to snap. Aziraphale doesn't know what's happening, what's _going_ to happen, but he's scared. He finds himself looking at the door instead of Gabriel._

Waiting for Crowley,_ he realizes. This was right about the moment where his demon would come waltzing in to save Aziraphale. Just like had done for six thousand years._

_Gabriel snaps._

_Metal creaks as it loops around Aziraphale's limbs, as it slams shut, as it pulls his arms back far and fast, as sharp spikes at the end of chains impale the bones of his wings and slam, grounded, into the floor. His body doesn't register the pain at first, is still holding onto that sliver of hope that Crowley would come storming in -- but then the last moment of respite is gone._

_A _burning_ like he's never felt before blazes its way around Aziraphale's wrists, his calves, his ankles, and especially his wings. Where the burning sensation doesn't reach, pain like nothing else surges and explodes._

_The angel screams and writhes, convulses. The littlest twitch brings a fresh onslaught of white hot and sharp pain, and it's a vicious cycle._

_Uriel and Sandalphon step back while Gabriel steps forward, as if he's admiring his work. His shrieking, crying, thrashing masterpiece._

_"Steel freshly forged in hellfire. The worst pain an angel can imagine. It won't kill you; it'll just feel like it."_

_Aziraphale sobs, his body quickly being sapped of its energy, his mind willing him to _stop moving,_ and he pleads with Gabriel._

_"Plea -- Please,_ please,_ Gabriel, it burns, it BURNS, please -- _Please_ \--" And it's incoherent from there, Aziraphale feels like the burning is going to drive him _mad.

_Gabriel's smile only turns wider, and he places a hand on Aziraphale's tear-strewn cheek, briefly, tenderly, before letting it drop and turning away._

_They were going to _leave him here.

_"NO! NO, GABRIEL -- URIEL, SANDALPHON -- PLEASE LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" His mind was going haywire with the idea that he might be left here to rot in these searing, fiery chains._

_It was as if the angels didn't hear him. Gabriel opened the door for them as they walked out, sparing only one smug glance at Aziraphale before leaving. The angel screamed and begged for them to come back, but only emptiness and pain answered._

_\---------_

_It's another day. Aziraphale doesn't know how long he's been there. The burning hasn't stopped; he's gotten more used to it, though that might be from the singed nerve endings. But feeling is still there. Just like him._

_No one's come for him. Not to interrogate or talk, not to save him, not even to ogle._

_And then someone does._

_The doors open of their own accord, and Gabriel comes in, completely alone. This might be good news -- around other angels, Gabriel might not have wanted to waver in his resolve; alone, however, and he might be persuaded to at least free Aziraphale of these damned chains. It might take an unseemly amount of begging that Aziraphale, honestly, is too proud to give without begrudgement, but desperate times call for desperate measures._

_"Archangel," Aziraphale begins, his voice thick with pain and weak with exhaustion and screaming. His arms _ache,_ and his knees hurt from being bent for so long. "Please. Take pity. Have mercy. The pain is... excruciating. I've served my sentence, you've gotten your vengeance. Please, _please,_ I'm begging you, I'll do anyth --"_

_He doesn't get to finish; not with Gabriel's fist connecting with his face and giving Aziraphale whiplash._

_The angel groans and feels blood pooling on his bottom lip, dripping onto his tongue. He can't see the fist that comes from the other side, just as strong, and then a knee to the chest. It yanks Aziraphale's body backward, his legs digging into the heavy clasps. This time, he cries out from the pain of the hellfire chains, but is again cut short by Gabriel, who's grabbed his face and held it tight between his fingers, as if he were trying to get them to touch through Aziraphale's cheeks -- trying to crush him._

_"You think that after consorting with a demon, you're fit to even _look_ at me, let alone call on my mercy?" He lets go of the angel's face and circles him like a hawk, violet eyes scorching._

_Aziraphale's voice comes out thick, pleading. "I -- I -- AUGH!"_

_The scream is ripped from his throat as Gabriel catches a bundle of feathers in each hand and _yanks._ He can feel the hellfire metal cutting through bone and sinew like a hot knife through butter. Pain sears through him, eating at his sanity, and he can't scream loour enough._

_When Gabriel lets go, Aziraphale sobs and hangs his head. This... This was too much. Any more, and he was going to lose it._

_"What do you _want_ from me?" The angel heaves, trying to look behind him. He doesn't feel safe if he can't see Gabriel -- that is, more unsafe than he already was._

_Blue meets violet, and the archangel scowls. He grabs Aziraphale's hair and pulls it back _too far,_ until Aziraphale can't even cry for the pain it causes. His voice gets raspy, his eyes squeeze shut with how much it _hurts.

_"Shut up," Gabriel snarls, one word at a time. There's a sound like clinking, and Gabriel lets go. Aziraphale's head snaps forward, his neck aching, and then he feels cool metal looping around his neck. Another chain, smaller, not burning like his other bondages, but just as tight._ _With a tug, Aziraphale's head was being pulled back again, and he knew that the ends of the chain were wrapped around Gabriel's fist._

_With his other hand, Gabriel runs a hand from the top of Aziraphale's head down his neck, his spine, stopping just short of his pants. A finger hooks itself beneath the hem, pulling ever so gently. It has Aziraphale's heart working double time, his entire body freezing up._

_Gabriel snaps, and Aziraphale feels more exposed than he's ever felt before. He's completely naked, the clothes miracled away. _

_When the archangel repeats the motion, his finger instead crooks itself against Aziraphale's tight hole._

_"Don't," is all Azriaphale can whisper, all he _dares_ to whisper. He tries to tighten the muscles, willing them expel Gabriel, let him know that this is _off limits --

_And then Gabriel pulls his head even farther back, until every breath the angel takes is shaky and audible and raw. Aziraphale doesn't dare look back, not if he wants the archangel to _stop.

_"This... This is what the demon wants from you. This is what he _really_ wants to do to you, but you're too stupid, too naive, too soft to see. I'm just opening your eyes. This is a divine punishment, God allows it all the time." Gabriel mutters, as if he's speaking more to himself than to Aziraphale. The chained angel takes in a sharp breath, fresh tears forming at the corners of his eyes._

_He shakes his head, not knowing what else to do. He can't fight, can't struggle; it won't get him anywhere. "Please, no. Beat me, please just punish me, don't -- don't --" He couldn't even say the words. _Don't take what is Crowley's.

_"I said, SHUT UP!" Gabriel shouts, and Aziraphale can hear the transfer of metal to his free hand, and then the sudden choking feeling as his head is pulled back, as the chains cross tightly at the back of his neck. Aziraphale reacts as little as he can, tries to keep himself under control to appease Gabriel. His hands ball into fists with the effort it takes not to struggle._

_When Gabriel is satisfied, he loosens the grip and Aziraphale feels air enter his lungs again. His eyes sting with asphyxiation, and he has to blink the tears away._

_Then he feels something hard and wet press up against his asscheek._

_He loses it._

_"Nononono, Gabriel, no, please, _please,_ I'll do anything, not this, _anything_ but this --" He's an incoherent, babbling, begging mess. It eats away at him to be so deferential, to have no other avenue but to plead with Gabriel for mercy, something that no principality should have to do. He's never begged before, not once. Not even Crowley would make him do something like this, not with the intention to humiliate Aziraphale._

_That's what this was -- _humiliating._ But he could do nothing to stop it._

_Gabriel pushes himself inside, setting Aziraphale on fire in a different type of way that hellfire never could._

_It pulls a scream from the deepest, darkest part of the pit of Aziraphale's stomach, unfettered even by the chains that tighten themselves again against his neck._

Aziraphale's eyes shoot open, his heart hammering in his chest.

When he looks around him, he doesn't register the lamps spreading a warm glow throughout the room, or the soft mattress beneath him, or the bandages that cover his arms and legs and pretty much everything underneath a plush robe. All he can focus on is that he _doesn't know_ where he is.

But then the _pain_ hits him all at once, and he's nearly knocked unconscious again because of it.

He groans, but he needs to move. He needs to get out, get back to his bookshop, needs to warn Crowley. All he could think of is _what if they got him too._ If that was what Heaven did to him... he didn't want to think about what Hell would have in store for his precious demon.

So Aziraphale fights to sit up, though it sends sharp stabs of pain through his shoulder blades. His breathing is shaky by then and his stomach starts to lurch, but he can't stop now. He swings one leg over the bed, then the other. When he sits, a white flame licks its way up his spine and he nearly cries out. He's quick to stand up instead, and that was the end of it all.

The world spins fast when Aziraphale stands, too fast for him to keep up, and he drops to the floor, retching.

There's footsteps and then a cried out "Aziraphale!" from a voice he doesn't know. The world is still moving too fast for Aziraphale to see their face. But they place their hands on him, and the angel writhes and fights against their touch, their insistent grabbing. It makes his heart pound, makes his eyes fill with tears, makes him tremble.

"_No,_ he slurs, more of a mantra now than an actual word, "Nonono, stop, nono --" His disoriented hands lift themselves to hit and push.

"Stop -- fighting -- AUNT HILDA!" The voice shouts, with a baritone. A man's voice.

His brain will only believe that it's Gabriel's.

"_NO!"_ Aziraphale cries louder, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. This has to be trick, a new type of torment that the archangel wanted to try out. Of course that's what it is. His entire body is pulsating with pain, his limbs can barely get themselves to work, his vision starts to vinaigrette --

And then he hears it. The voice he's been longing to hear since the beginning of all this.

"Aziraphale?" It's the only voice he knows, the only one that relaxes his muscles, makes his heart sigh, makes his brain short circuit.

Aziraphale allows himself three breaths before he can look over. He sees his demon, wearing his usual all black, but clothes he's never seen in his wardrobe. They're breezier, not as tight-fitting. The sunglasses are also different; they don't have the side-visors to block his eyes from any angle. And his figure is more tired yet more tense, as if there was a breath he was waiting to exhale. But at the end of it all... it's _him._

"Crowley?" The angel whispers, and he feels more tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

His lover takes a sharp breath and then surges forward like he couldn't move fast enough, tumbles to the ground beside Aziraphale, and looks him over like he's afraid he'll disappear. The other figure backs away, and Aziraphale instinctively closes up on himself.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says again, his voice now racked with emotion. "You're alive."

Aziraphale doesn't speak again, only looks up into Crowley's handsome face, tries to drink in all his features; and then he remembers that they're both in very real danger.

"Where -- Where did he go --" Aziraphale's already trying again to get to his feet, to look around him wildly, looking for a tall figure in all white.

"Who, angel? You mean Ambrose?" Crowley says softly, reaching out shakily. He doesn't touch, but Aziraphale still recoils.

"No -- No, _Gabriel is --_" His eyes set on the other man in the room, who's staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn't recognize him in the slightest.

Aziraphale surges to his full height now, and the world threatens to cast him down again -- but not when a stranger threatened _Crowley._

"I don't know -- who you are," he pants, pain still shooting up his spine and his legs getting ready to buckle, "But if you -- work for -- for Gabriel -- If you even -- _think_ \-- about laying a hand on -- on him --" Aziraphale points to Crowley, and then takes one step forward. He stumbles, but every cell in his body is working on keeping him upright rather than on coherent, logical thought.

The figure backs away, hands up in surrender. "I'm not gonna hurt you, but the floor might; you look like you're going to pass out in the next five seconds, mate."

Then an older woman, plump and exuding kindness, comes through the door in her PJs and a basket of herbs. "Ambrose, what's the -- _Oh!"_ She exclaims, her eyes setting on Aziraphale. "When did you -- How are you --"

Aziraphale doesn't like this at all. There's too many people, too much danger, and he doesn't have long before his body gives up on him. He and Crowley need to get out of there.

"Angel," Crowley says, and Aziraphale turns to look at him. He's never seen Crowley so gentle and tame in front of other people, and not when they pose a _very present threat._ "Gabriel isn't here. This is Ambrose. She's Hilda. They've been helping us both get better. _We're safe here._"

Aziraphale only stares at him, disbelieving. _Safe?_ There was no way. There was just absolutely _no way_ that Gabriel could be gone, just like that, not when he'd occupied every waking moment of Aziraphale's consciousness for -- for God knows how long.

But then Crowley takes a step forward, and Aziraphale's skin aches to be against Crowley's. It breaks his focus, his resolve, and his legs finally give out.

Crowley rushes forward to catch him before he hits the floor, and the speed of the moment makes Aziraphale's head swim and vision spin and blur.

"Put him back into bed," the woman named Hilda orders immediately, taking only a few small steps forward. Aziraphale feels his head loll in her direction, if only to watch and make sure no one hurt Crowley, but his body moves entirely of its own accord. Crowley half-carries him back to wherever he'd been resting, and places him down as gently as a feather on water.

"Crowley," Aziraphale manages, his voice thick. This time, Aziraphale is reaching out to touch, and he cups the demon's cheek. His weary arm has little precision in the action, however, and ends up knocking the sunglasses off.

"Yes?" The demon, despite never wanting to show affection in the presence of others, leans into the touch. He acts as if the glasses never existed, his eyes locked on Aziraphale's. The angel prefers it that way.

"'M sorry," he says, voice quivering. His mind is still in fight mode from the dream, from the strangers. "It's still yours, _I'm still yours -- _just couldn't stop him. Wasn't -- wasn't his to... to..." He's sinking again, the vinaigrette is darker, inching closer towards the middle of his vision.

"What are you talking about, angel?" Crowley's voice is sharper now, filled with concern. "What's still -- what wasn't his?"

There's a voice outside of Crowley's, and the demon looks up and away. Aziraphale feels his throat make a needy noise that would be completely embarrassing if it weren't Crowley's attention he was trying to get back.

Then the golden serpent eyes fall back on his, and Aziraphale feels warmth, a _good warmth,_ seep through him.

"Never mind all that right now," he says quietly. "We can talk about that later. What I need from you right now is not to fall asleep, okay? You can do that for me, right?"

It's only when it's pointed out does Aziraphale realize how heavy his eyelids were getting. Sleep sounded nice... But not if Crowley needed him. So he nods, thumb rubbing lazy, spastic circles next to Crowley's lips.

"Good," the other breathes, visibly resisting the urge to nuzzle into his hand even more. "And then Hilda can redress your wounds. I put your wings away for you, but she'll need to check on th --"

"No." Aziraphale interrupts, shutting the whole idea down. "I don't want -- I just want you," he asks, both hands holding Crowley's face. He didn't want hands, especially _stranger's hands,_ all over him. The demon almost sighs at the touch, but it's clear he's trying to keep his resolve.

"Please, angel. I can't... Undo what Gabriel did. You know that. It could kill us both. She knows what she's doing, or else I wouldn't have trusted her to help us --"

"I don't want you to leave me," Aziraphale is desperate now, desperate to keep Crowley right there, to never let him go, not now, not ever --

"He doesn't have to go, dear." It's a woman's voice now, on the other side of him. Aziraphale gasps and recoils from the surprise, and a hand shoots to shield Crowley. But she makes no more sudden movements, just stares at him with wide, understanding eyes. "He can stay right next to you. I'll just wrap some new bandages on right quick, and then you can tell me if I've missed any spots where it still hurts."

Her voice is quiet, shaky, and disarming. Aziraphale looks at her, over at Crowley, and then back. _Everything _hurts, and he's sure that there was fresh blood coming from _somewhere._ So he nods, letting his hands fall to his sides. He sees Crowley almost chase after his hands, and then resist the urge.

Hilda orders Ambrose to fetch her some bandages and occult herbs, and she sets to work on unwrapping a forearm.

Aziraphale tries to keep his breathing even, but he can't help focusing on Hilda's hands. She's barely touching him, but he can still feel her light fingers pressing into his skin to remove another layer of bandage, and all he can do is wait for the pain his body's been conditioned to expect, for her hands to grip his hips, and his eyes squeeze themselves closed with fear and his chest is tight and --

"Angel," Crowley calls, and it's his turn to place a hand on his cheek. "It's okay. Don't be afraid. I'm here."

The angel wills his eyes to open, though he knows they're miniscule with terror. It's all he can do to focus on Crowley's face, _his_ touch, to keep him grounded, to keep him from drifting back to thoughts of when Gabriel had come in a number of times, had tortured and -- and _invaded_ him.

It doesn't help that Hilda makes a strangled noise.

The sound triggers his body to reflexively pull away, the phantom pain of the _burning_ playing on the skin of his wrist.

_His wrist._

All three of them look at the blackened, peeling, raw skin. Exposed to the air, the phantom pain only intensifies now that he can actually _look_ at it.

Aziraphale turns away, ashamed.

"This isn't normal fire like I thought," Hilda whispers, "this is worse. How --"

"It -- It was steel... Forged in h-hellfire," Aziraphale whimpers, hissing as she lays the lightest touch on his skin. Even that burns, and Aziraphale has to stop himself from recoiling.

"_Hellfire?_" Hilda and Crowley say at the same time -- though the tones are vastly different. Crowley's punches through Aziraphale's cloudy brain the most, angry and vicious.

"I -- Well, there's -- oh, dear." Hilda sounds worried, her eyes raking over the skin over and over again.

Ambrose comes in with herbs haphazardly picked, and he presents them to his aunt.

She digs through the small basket her nephew had brought, and shakes her head. "This -- none of this will work for hellfire. I have to go in my private store and make a potion. It'll take the night to make, but... but it should heal much better than it is now."

For now, she grabs a washcloth and dips it in a bowl of water to clean the wounds with. Aziraphale bites his lip to hold back a scream, but he can't stop the tears of pain.

"I know it hurts," Crowley whispers, his voice quivering too. "But you're doing so well. _So well,_ Aziraphale."

Aziraphale can't keep quiet when the cloth, gently, oh so gently, presses against the marred skin of his wrists. He wails and almost, _almost_ pulls his arm away. Instead, he balls up his fist, the same way he did whenever Gabriel pushed him too far. His palms, bruised from the force with which his fingers constantly dug in, protested with pain. His entire body was pain, it was the only thing he knew how to feel anymore.

"That's it," the demon praises. "She's almost done, it's almost over, and then you can rest, okay?" His slender fingers are wiping away Aziraphale's tears.

The angel can only nod and squeeze his eyes closed again.

It takes the better part of an hour to rebandage everything, but they're finally done. Aziraphale's a heaving mess, and he's grabbed Crowley's hand at some point to help him through. Needless to say, he's ready to sleep -- but it's hard. He doesn't want to dream.

And he definitely doesn't want Crowley to leave.

"Alright. My dear, I think you've earned yourself a lollipop!" Hilda chuckles, clapping her hands together. Both demon and angel look at her, confusion on their faces. She returns the look, and then makes a realization. "Oh -- when you go to the doctor's, at the end, they give you a lollipop... Oh, never mind, just, you're doing okay. Everything's been healing slowly this past week, but healing."

The words hit Aziraphale like a ton of bricks. He's been asleep for a week? How long was he dreaming the same dream?

"Oh," is all he says, his voice wrecked and small.

"So, before, I go, is there, uh anything at all that you need? Anything else that -- that hurts or -- or anything?" Her voice takes on a different tone, one that is treading _lightly._

They look at each other, and he knows that she knows. Why wouldn't she? Aziraphale, aside from all the blood and bruises, has been cleaned of the sweat and dirt that had caked his skin while he was in Heaven; and he didn't even know that Heaven had dirt. She's had to turn him around, had to clean off the seed splattered his rear, his back, his thighs.

He shakes his head, too tired to think about it now. He just wanted a minute alone with Crowley.

"No, I'm alright. Thank you... so much," he says to Hilda. She gives him a sad little smile before nodding and hobbling out, Ambrose right behind. The door closes, and the demon and angel are alone.

"Aziraphale, you should probably --"

The angel doesn't waste a moment; he pushes himself up and captures Crowley's lips in a deep kiss, a desperate kiss, a kiss he'd been waiting to give like his life depended on it. The demon makes a soft sound and relaxes into it, and Crowley's hand slides up his neck to hold the side of the angel's face. Aziraphale rests a hand against Crowley's chest that slowly balls into a fist, grabbing his shirt. For just those few seconds, his senses are relaxed, full of Crowley's scent, his touch, the sound of their lips pressing together again and again and again. When they part, Crowley's breathing is quiet but heavy.

"I love you, Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, the only clear thought he's had all night. "And I'm sorry I got you into this --"

"You apologize one more time, I might lose it," Crowley answers, letting their foreheads rest against each other. His hand slips behind Aziraphale's neck to thread through the hairs at the base of his skull. The touch is gentle, caring, and oh, _so_ welcome. "I should have been there to -- to stop it."

"I've decided that I'm glad you weren't." Bewildered gold eyes meet a calm blue. "If anyone hurt you to get to _me..._ Oh, dearest, I don't know what I'd do. I'd never forgive myself." The "anyone," of course, was supposed to mean _Gabriel _\-- but Aziraphale wouldn't let that name ruin his time with his love.

Crowley's eyebrows hitch up, and sorrow is written all over his face. "_Aziraphale..."_

"I know that's not what you want to hear. But it's okay. It's all okay now, we're together again," he finishes as a whisper, pulling Crowley down again, and all the demon can do is kiss him back as slow as possible, putting all his love into it.

It's Crowley who pulls away this time, though every centimeter seems to pain him. "You need to rest."

"I need _you_," Aziraphale insists, running a hand down his cheek. Crowley shivers, turns his head to kiss his palms. The pressure hurts, just a little, but he doesn't show it.

"I need you, too," the demon rebutts. "But I'd prefer you _rested._"

Aziraphale loses his nerve at that, his eyes falling somewhere past Crowley.

"I'm... afraid to sleep. I have _dreams."_ Just thinking about it sends his heart to work.

Crowley says nothing, but presses a chaste kiss to his lips. "I'm here. Not leaving your side."

Aziraphale... doubts that will change anything. Crowley isn't there in the dreams -- _nightmares_ \-- where he's needed most. But tonight, that's going to have to be enough. The angel sighs and takes a hold of Crowley's hand, holds it to his lips.

"I just have one thing to ask you," Crowley says, and Aziraphale can hear the hesitance in his voice, as if he didn't want to be asking but _needed_ to.

"Yes, dearest?"

"It was... Gabriel that -- that did this to you?" His words are quiet, calculated. Aziraphale can read his mind as if the thoughts were on paper right in front of him.

"_Anthony Crowley, I forbid you from going anywhere near Gabriel,"_ Aziraphale seethes, both hands gripping Crowley's now. Flashes of all the precise ways that Gabriel had made him _hurt_ played in his mind, and he never, not ever, wanted to imagine Crowley in his place.

"He needs to pay for this," Crowley hisses back, fury written in every line of his face. "I swear to God _and_ to Satan that I will kill --"

"You will d_o no such thing!"_ Aziraphale orders, tears coming to his eyes. It hurts to shout like this, after everything, his throat sore. He knows Crowley's temper, especially when it comes to Aziraphale. There were too many times when a younger lad would enter his bookshop, and Crowley would nearly murder them chasing them out, accusing him of giving Aziraphale a certain _look__._ Yes, Aziraphale's seen jealousy -- but he's never seen anger, and he's afraid of what Crowley will do for revenge. "Please, Crowley, I -- I couldn't -- If he _got_ you." The words come out with more breaths as he reaches the end of the sentence.

If Gabriel chained him up the same way and fucked him so brutally, ruthlessly, hatefully.

Crowley shushes him as a few more tears slip down his face. He doesn't know how he has anything left in him to cry with. "Don't, just _don't,"_ he pleads, pressing kisses against Crowley's palm as persuasion. Defeat is all over the demon's face.

"Alright, angel. We can talk about this later."

"_Never,_" Aziraphale pushes. He won't take anything less for an answer, not when it comes to keeping Crowley safe. "You can never go to him, and you have to swear." All the emotion is making him tired.

Crowley says nothing, waiting for Aziraphale to change his mind. He won't.

"Okay." The demon finally concedes, and something in Aziraphale's heart settles. Then he's able to sleep.

\-------

The first few days, Aziraphale doesn't wake, and Crowley would know; he's been watching his angel like a hawk.

Day and night, Crowley sits by Aziraphale's bedside, watching him rest, watching his bruises get a little lighter, watching his face relax and tighten and relax with each passing nightmare. Each time, he wanted to wake Aziraphale up, but he was afraid that they'd get the same desperate show as the first time Aziraphale was awake. Crowley was sure Aziraphale was going to hurt himself then, nearly dead and still fiercely defending Crowley.

There's one night he wakes up. It's super early in the morning, and Crowley's pacing the room. He hated being one place too long, but between not wanting to pop up on Gabriel's radar nor to leave Aziraphale, he's stayed cooped up in the thankfully large bedroom. He's inspected the random bits of jewelry that littered the twin dressers just before looking up to see his own reflection. He looks tired, but more emotionally than physically.

Then he hears a quiet sound, a small grunt, and Crowley's swooping down to Aziraphale's side.

There's more, getting more insistent, and then Aziraphale's eyes shoot open, wide as saucers and irises as small as mustard seeds.

The angel is deathly still, chest no longer rising or falling, and Crowley realizes with a start that he's _not breathing._

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispers urgently. "Breathe, please breathe." They don't need to, that much is obvious; but whatever Crowley can do to ease the angel's suffering, he'll do in a heartbeat.

Pale blue shoots to the side, captures Crowley's gaze and say what his lips can't: _It's impossible._

"It's okay. You can do it. Look," He says, taking one of Aziraphale's hands and pressing it to his heart. Despite the excitement that Aziraphale was awake and the fear that he was _not okay,_ Crowley wills his heart to slow its beating. His breaths come deep and slow, a model for Aziraphale to follow.

Soon, the angel's chest starts to rise and fall, fast at first, and then slow, just like Crowley's.

Then the tears come, sudden and plentiful.

Crowley has to control himself as he leans forward to wrap his arms around Aziraphale. The blonde is shaking and sobbing, fingers digging into Crowley's shirt, his skin, his soul. 

"It's okay," the demon whispers. "I've got you. I've got you. Never letting you go, you know that..."

"I -- I --" Aziraphale chokes out. Crowley waits with a patience to rival God Herself, and then Aziraphale gives up, signified by a defeated press of the forehead against Crowley's arm.

"It's alright. Just relax. No one's going to hurt you anymore." He nuzzles against white hair, still softer than anything Crowley's ever touched -- and he owns a lot of velvet.

They stay like that for what Crowley would have mistaken for hours -- and then Aziraphale shifts, lays himself back down in the bed, staring right up at the ceiling.

"Better?" Crowley asks, playing with Aziraphale's pinky, afraid to hold his whole hand and risk any friction against his wrists.

Aziraphale says nothing, as if he weren't sure how to answer. He only turns his head to look at Crowley again, and he can see the scarring in Aziraphale's eyes.

"May... I ask you..." The words are very obviously hard for the angel to heave out, but he does it nonetheless.

"Anything," Crowley interrupts, leaning just a little closer.

"A song... By Queen... The -- The pretty..." Blue eyes are slowly covered by eyelids, and Crowley gives him time to breathe.

Crowley knew exactly what song Aziraphale wanted to hear. He'd only played it once when Aziraphale was there, on one particularly splendid night out and the Bentley decided to spit out the words that Crowley couldn't.

Oh, all that wasted time.

"Oh -- Sure, I can -- Let me just find my phone --"

"No," Aziraphale breathes. "_Sing_ it. Please."

Crowley feels his face heat up. The only time he sang were the stupid little lullabies for Warlock, and that was only because he'd complain and not listen if he didn't. This was different, but... but wasn't this worth a song? More important than persuading Warlock to evil?

He doesn't say anything for a short while, but eventually, he's sat on the bed next to his angel and leaning down low over him, just so that they can be close as possible.

"_Love of my life,_" Crowley begins; his voice sounds cracked and he's barely holding the tune with all the emotion. "_You've hurt me. __You've broken my heart, and now you leave me. Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me, because you don't know how much it means to me..."_

"_L-... Love of... my..." _Aziraphale tries, and his voice sounds absolutely wracked.

"_Life,"_ Crowley finishes. He places a kiss on Aziraphale's forehead. "_Don't leave me. You've taken my love, and now desert me... Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me because you don't know... what it means to me..._" He lowers his face to catch Aziraphale's lips, and although he can barely feel it, Aziraphale kisses him back, weak and gentle.

"_You will remember, when this is blown over, and everything's all by the way. When I grow older, I will be there by your side to remind you how I still love you..."_

_"I... Still lo -- ... Love you..." _The notes come one by one from plush pink lips, and Crowley almost buckles when he hears the words, knowing they were more than just lyrics.

He lowers himself to one elbow, allowing his hand to press against Aziraphale's cheek.

"_Back, hurry back, please bring it back home to me because you don't know what it means to me..._

_Love of my life, love of my life."_

Aziraphale's managed to sing the last few words with Crowley, just in time. Then there's a sad, peaceful hint of a smile on his face.

"There, angel. You've got your song."

Aziraphale gives a quiet hum of pleasure, and tries to shift. The movement seems to wake the rest of his body up, and he's soon twitching with pain -- but it's not as bad as before. Still, Crowley watches with concern as the angel nearly curls in on himself.

**Author's Note:**

> if you've made it this far. if you've read this fic. thank you and ily ♥️♥️


End file.
